( doctordonna ) nanowrimo challenge
by peachyuu
Summary: oneshots written during the NanoWrimo challenge of 2012. both platonic and romantic, focus on Tenth and Donna, some Nine and Donna also included. not proofread, since it's Nano, so spelling errors gallore ... but enjoy, hopefully! [ doctors&donna, info per oneshot inside ]
1. It wasn't the Twix

[ O1 / ? ] **prompt**: 9th meets Donna and gets odd future - vibes from her.

way to start a 10th / Donna NaNo with someone that ISN'T 10th, but okay. I really liked this prompt, except it turned out to be harder to write than I thought. 9th is an absolute HORROR to characterize for me and I feel I keep getting Donna a little mixed up with another sassy ginger I've been acquainting myself with for several years now ...  
not proofread, so if you spot any [ glaring ] spelling / grammar mistakes, please let me know! opinions on characterization and general concrit would be appreciated as well. hope you enjoy! ; v;

* * *

**IT WASN'T THE TWIX**.  
[_ ninth / donna / mentions of rose_ ]

* * *

Most of the time, things are okay. Walking, okay. Breathing, okay. Heartbeat, okay, except when out of unison as it gets a little noisy between all non – linear thinking. People, okay, or sometimes bad, and sometimes good.

Rose was good – _very_good – though sometimes ( like now ) he wonders how and why because now he is a Timelord in a grocery store challenged off to finding a snack to her liking as they apparently never have such a thing inside his spaceship.

He thought he spoiled her good enough when landed, but apparently not. Wimenly – wohmenly wiles ( a rhyme he'd better remember, because, he notes, easy sounding rhyme is good for teaching idiots ).

So he's on Earth, okay.  
It's a store, okay.

But this woman, she is not.  
He doesn't even know why. He doesn't need a screwdriver or any bleeping to tell that she's not alien, not special, not clever, not important or powerful or _anything_. She's just some woman comparing the level of saturated fats in two different types of dietary cookies – not exactly someone he should have to feel uneasy about.  
And still he does.

Normally, anxiety would be the trigger for a good sprint back to the exit.  
It's just that he's the Doctor, and he already does enough running in his own time. This trip out to get a candybar is asking for some _danger_.

" Hello! " Suddenly he's next to her, and he's grinning widely, hands in his pockets. " I got a question. "  
The redhead swings her chin up, attention irritably torn away from the two rolls in her hands, and sends him a glower. " I'm sorry _mister_, but I don't recall you _asking_ if you could actually _throw_ me one? "  
Being used to Rose's mumbling style of speech, her biting down nearly every syllable is almost like having to acquaint yourself again with a foreign language you have no spoken in ages. " Oh, sorry, didn't mean to _throw_ you off there! " He holds the cheeky face. " It's really urgent, though. Can I ask it? "  
She looks at him like he's mad – a look he's seen oftentimes before. He can just feel the radars ticking: if it really was so urgent, why didn't he ask right away?

He doesn't really care about her answer, though. It was simply that, should he only have asked for the lane with the chocolate, she'd point him and be off. There would be the option of lingering, but it would look quite creepy, and with the odd vibe she's giving off, he's not sure what will happen if she starts to think he's getting creepy.  
It could actually be fantastic, but after a bumpy day involving three elephants and an alien cellar only about 4 hours behind him, a chase isn't exactly on his most wanted list.

And yet it's fascinating, the alarm she's setting off. Everything slows and curls in his head, swirling across that one thin speeding line of thought that's flashing too fast for him to read it. It's him – but not _I_ – and he thinks it's her and the rest is unclear but it involves more running than half his adventures with Rose were demanding, so there's something – _something_ – and he just doesn't know _what_.  
Not knowing is frustrating.

Apparently he knit his brow too deep.  
" You okay there? " She has her hand still on the roll of cookies she decided to put back ( and decided badly for her diet, he sees in a blink ) and she's eyeing him as if he's about to have a stroke.  
Or more like he's about to puke and she'll run off at that point, he figures at second glance.  
He makes his own look shining bright again. " Fantastic! So, say, do you happen to know where they got the candy stocked? I'm not from around here and there happens to be a case of trouble that needs to be solved – urgently, as I said. Not my trouble though. Trouble with someone else. " He smiles. " Woman – trouble. Very urgent. "  
While obviously still thinking him a weirdo, the indirect desperate cry for help against cramps of her kin seems to soften her a little. " You should just have ought to say so, you know?! " She yaps, blaming her former unwillingness to help on him. " Look, it's right over there. "  
He follows her point half a second sharp and then snaps back to her. " Great! Helps a bunch. You're from here, then? "  
" Look, stud, " She gives, doing a little sway with her head yet again, " If you're trying to hit on me, it's not gonna work this way, and it's not working to _begin_ with, because I'll have you know I got the _sweetest_ boyfriend. "  
" I'm very sweet too, though! " He's not exactly bent on becoming her new boyfriend ( he isn't one for that kind of relationships but lovers aren't supposed to induce _pits_ in stomachs ) but he'd rather not leave before he figures out what's up with her and his head. " Getting candy for my friend, no? " He does a little headshake too, still grinning.  
" Your _friend_? " She fires back. " Oh really, just look at your _face_. That's really not gonna work on me, pimp-o. Now get your Snickers, and get out. "  
He's half tempted to make a ' knickers ' comment, but then she might just actually get angry, compared to the faux coy – petulant face she has now.

That's what he thought she was, at least, but suddenly she's walking off.

He has half a mind ( half mind that slowly reboots to normal now she's out of the vicinity ) to give her chase. Rose has just been waiting for a while now, though, and he'd rather not let her get in trouble without him – something she is awfully good at. So he strides after her slowly, and gives another hopeful try: " Can't pick! What's your favourite, then? "  
" Next to the Bounty, Adonis! " She doesn't even turn around: she just yells back.  
Last chance. " Left or right?! "  
She stops dead in her tracks halfway her rounding the corner, and he sees the little smile. " Give it your best shot. "  
Then she's gone.

_Women_.  
The Bounty takes some searching, but he finds it in the end. It isn't until he's almost at the register that he sees her again, tiptoeing for spaghetti.  
He reaches, placing his palm on it.  
When she spins, he smilingly presses the candy in her open hand. " The left one, is it? "  
She looks both incredulous and amused – especially when he then hands her the uncooked dinner, and then totters off with a grin and a wave. " Hope he's tall, then! "

Right before he moves past the cashier, she suddenly bobs out of the pasta lane. " Hope she's pretty, Mars - man! "

When he walks out, he still doesn't know just why that hurt.


	2. Night Fever

[ O2 / ? ] **prompt**: dancing

fact: I actually REALLY don't like this one [ probably because I fail at making their characters shine through without any direct talking ] so I might delete or replace it later or just do another oneshot with the same prompt ... but no real use in throwing it out NOW, because NaNo is just about writing and getting some wordcount in.  
so, keeping this for the wordcount only, pretty much. orz ; corrections / help would be nice.

* * *

**NIGHT FEVER.**  
[ _tenth / donna_ ]

* * *

One thing is for certain – he really can't do the bloody Boogie.

Despite vehement panting that he used to be rather wonderful at ballroom dancing before ( he could tell her how he found it, but he feels like it might ruin the mood, his flailing and kicking does not make her inclined to believe him. But when he's finished with being the rheumatic cousin of Balou the bear and trying an actual wave, she dissolves into her high – pitched whooping laughter, watching him flop around like a whale stuck in Jungle Book.

His next attempt to introduce some ' real dance moves ' ( apparently taught to him by ' romantic classis Hitch ' ), mainly involving him circling his arms as if he forgot how to spell YMCA while yelling it's time to for him to make the pizza, only has her grappling at the pillars in his spaceship.  
Here he seems to take note that she's actually more laughing than watching, and gives up to pout, suggesting one last move in the former of him showing off his formerly well – received robotic Ghostbusters front – moonwalk. She just stumbles over, now equally graceful, and grabs him by the upper arms of that pinstriped suit, tries to tell him something, and then bumps her shoulder in his before she lays her forehead on it to simply cry in utterly humored hysterics.

He just stands there for a moment, brow petulantly furrowed, and then sighingly gives in, admitting that certain skills don't always carry over to the next regeneration. A sputtering and hiccupping ' I noticed that, Spaceman ' has him make another face, and to get attention, he touches at her sides.  
She's immediately cured of the giggles and slaps his hands away. " Oi, not going there again! "  
" But I'm not doing anything! " He protests further, petulance growing by the moment. " I was doing things, but you were just _laughing_at me! For all I know, you can't even do it better! "

Of course, however, Donna Noble is not one you should challenge lightly.

She doesn't dance much aside from some shake and stoop a little, which he promptly labels ' boring ' , and lessons quickly became face – offs and togethers, back to back and swinging still, back and forth, around, and loudly cackling.

Later, face – to – face, she tells him he should drop it – or actually not, because his hiphop is plain awful. Turning slowly, hand in hand, is something she had to admit he can actually do, however, as easy as it is. When her eyes pass by the door of TARDIS once again, she looks up, and then back smiling, asking if there are planets spinning at this kind of comfortable speed.  
He knows much more detail and data, but quietly settles for telling her the universe is indeed that kind sometimes.

When her head is in his neck again, now comfortably and almost sleeping, he finds his palms fit her waist quite well, as they swirl in the speed of a newborn world.


	3. North Star

[ O3 / ? ] **prompt**: stars

hahalookit'sanotheroneIhate. my friend just got admitted to the hospital so look at me being distracted and actually not wanting to write. orz ; could do better than 1k, I guess, but at least it's something should I not manage to get in more today.  
if someone could get some enjoyment out of this one_ at all_, that would be fab, because I really can't. ; n;

* * *

**NORTH STAR**  
[ _tenth / donna / very vague mentions of rose_ ]

* * *

It's clear out, and it's cold. You'd think it's nothing grand when there's cat people and talking rhinos and all sorts of beeping robots and a floating head or two out there, but maybe it's exactly that sheer amount of ordinary that makes him love this place so much.

The TARDIS stands upon a hill, and she frowns a little, arms clasped around herself. " Doctor, where is this? "  
He smiles – perhaps a little too satisfied, because it doesn't get her to do the same back. " Home. "  
A short pause.  
" _Well_, home for you. "  
Same short pause.  
" _Well_, same planet. "  
Slightly more pensive pause.  
" … _Well_, might actually not even be the same time of the year or the Earth or the time … didn't really check that. " He notices her glower, and bashfully thumbs over his shoulder. " You … want me to go check? "  
" _Why_ are we here?! " That tone means she's not happy. " We only ever drop off here if there's some huge calamity or when I've been away for long, and I've visited my place just the other day so does this mean we're going to have to beat your little outer space _friends_ again in the middle of the night because I can tell you mister I am _not_ - "  
" No, we're n - "  
" Then _what_?! " This is escalating in the sort of look that makes him wish he was indeed facing half an army of Cybermen instead. Right when when he's about to try and temper her levels of anger to semi – acceptable again, however, she suddenly goes quiet. " Is this - … Can I … not come after all? … If it's something I did, Doctor, then I - ! "  
" Oh, no, no no no! " The speed he had intended to dart off with is now used to quickly and reassuringly take her by the shoulders, almost complete with little wake – up shake. " No, Donna. Not that. I wouldn't do that. Don't worry. Ever. "  
" … Then _what_? " She is now all non-comprehending wide eyes with crinkled brows above them.  
He smiles again, still without return, then turns her and looks up. " Donna Noble, do you know which ones you've already been to? "

She then spends literally minutes pattering across the grass they've parked on, head back and occasionally laughing.  
" I don't know! " She finally gives in, a very un – Donna – like thing to do, as she comes breezing back to him. " I don't know, there are so many! … And you? "  
" Me? " He cants his head, hands in his pockets.  
" Where have you been? " She joins his side. " All of them? "  
He laughs a little. " Not all of them. Lots, though. "  
His answer is momentarily satisfactory, as she says nothing – but then she points. " Spaceman. The little one. The cozy one. Between the two biggers. Can we go there? "

It's the first time he himself frowns since looking up at all the stars.  
" … It's gone. " He first mentally offers apologies to the far – off dead galaxy, and then to her. " I'm sorry, Donna. "  
She does that little thing she always does when she is very shocked or scared: lightly grabbing at his sleeve. " … But you have a time travel box. Couldn't we? … "  
" Fixed point. " They have been at Pompeii already. There is no further explanation needed.  
Heavy quiet also isn't needed – in fact, it is entirely unwanted – but it ensues anyway. He hears the universe louder than he ever does, and he hears most of it cry, yet even closer, next to him, he hears her kind soul mourn the long dead she just discovered.  
" … Why is it still there? "  
There's no real time for scientific explanations, or there is, but it is not _the_ time. " It's far away. The light sometimes doesn't reach you until billions of years later. It's like one big, burning memory. "  
" That's what memories look like? "

It's not what he meant. In fact, it's something he hasn't even considered before. They are both in wonder: she again at the sky above her as she lets go and steps away, he at her and her compassion, her refusal to watch the nanny fall, her pleads to save one family at least, her entire understanding of the Ood within just seconds – half of everything she said, and now this, here, too.  
" Doctor. " She returns to him. " … I know it hurt, losing her. But look at it. Isn't she still pretty, too? "

There was no specific star that needed any pointing at. They were all brilliant and shining, even amidst the unfortunate dark circling around them.  
Perhaps, in the end, he figures, it's the hurt that makes her gleam so brightly.

Or it did, at least.

" Donna. " He mirrors her addressing him, but he is so much more demure, so much less reassuring, so many times more scared. " … What if they start to flicker? What if they're not going out, but they still flicker and fade because some other one is growing and outshining them? "  
It is normally his job to grin at the silliness of people, but now she is the one smiling, hands a little below his shoulders. " What are you even _talking _about, Martian? That can't happen in a brain that big. Don't worry. It can't. You save the worlds, not lose them. Not with you around. " In a zip, she's fixed his tie, and steps back. " Just light them up a bit again. You can do that. Don't you always? " He doesn't know why she wanders back, but before he can say something, she's halfway into the TARDIS again. " Just do me a bit of a favor. I'm not your Ursa Major, but don't let me go out. "

There are things he wants to tell her, but she already shuts the door, and he's robbed of the vision of Aurora Borealis at Heath Mynd.


	4. FRX

[ O4 / ? ] **prompt**: inspired by the possitively [ tight ] hug in this scene: [ on tumblr /tumblr_mcu3xwP54o1qg1mbqo5_r1_ ]

bluhbluh a bit worried about characterization here again but okay it's not that horrible I think?  
anyway, the way 10th just kind of grapples onto Donna at the end of Midnight always gives me the most horrible shippy feelings, so it was about time I did something using that. u _u  
... I think by now it's also time I start to write something a little happier because these drabbles are all getting pretty angsty somehow. SORRY ANGST IS JUST MY GENRE. / flails  
also, set in snippets after the events of the Doctor's Daughter / Silence in the Library + Forest of the Dead / Midnight. try to refer to that in the fic itself, but I didn't know if that was clear enough. orz

I have some nice prompts left, but if there's something you would like to read, don't hesitate to let me know. ; u; ;

* * *

**FRX**  
[ _tenth / donna / mentions of jenny and river_ ]

* * *

When everything is great and hurts, he likes to talk small things. It diminishes his mind to the littlest of problems – the littlest of pains. It's a little like being unable to scratch that annoying itch on your toe due to a fractured arm and three broken ribs.

The more you think about your foot, the less the rest of it hurts.

So he tries to chatter away a bit, even after being reassured with that hand on his chest and those palms on his arms, because even though she was a daughter he didn't like to accept, he came to love her after all.

" You know! " He yells between the roaring of the TARDIS and yanking a handle or two, " it was a good name you picked! "  
Next they land – and all is quiet.  
" … Sorry, " She finally says.  
" … Sorry what? " He's on the opposite end of the control board and he can't see her face. He feels like he might not want to know, but curiosity is known for getting the better of him at all times.  
" I just … " She tilts her head back and stares up at the ceiling as if she's hearing the Ood sing again. Finally, she sighs, and forces a small smile at him. " You know, with … Lance … " She fails to further look at him, sliding her fingers wide open between some buttons before curling them. " I just … you start thinking family, and … " The inhale is so long it's like she had been choked just now. " I … had a list. "  
She dips her head to have it go without saying that her name was on it.  
He doesn't know what to do, at all, until she turns back, pained and speaking again.  
" I didn't - ! I just really liked the name and I swear I wasn't trying - "  
" It's a great name. " It's not reassuring her – it's sincerity. Jenny wasn't the most beautiful he'd ever heard, but it was her kind sentiment that counted in the end.  
It's the sentiment that now counts all the more.  
" Thank you, Donna. For giving that name. Away. To her. It must have been hard, but if she'd known, she would have appreciated it all the more. She really liked it, though. I'm her dad. I would know. " He gives her shoulder a little squeeze and attempts to dispel her tears through smiling. " You'd make a great mother. "

Later she recounts to him that made her cry because she'd given up all hope. There was a man she was to marry, make children with, create a future, but she ended up reading the pool when it was already dry.  
The water had been salt and stagnant to begin with, though, but she'd mistaken it for fragrance and sweet lilies.  
She tells him this, fresh out of the library, to let him know she understands just what his Timelord – code okay is, with her second chance already given and yet taken away again just as abruptly as it came. She bends her face in all directions, trying to dwarf her pain compared to his, and then adds: " It's not like we have time for that here anyway, do we, Spaceman? "

And if he would, he'd mend her bones, but though he calls himself the Doctor he has never been a healing man, so he could only scratch and scratch and scratch and open a new wound he would not know how to handle. It's where he needs that stopping, it's where he needs that guidance, but she's the one to give it, now broken in her bed and not even healing because everything itches and no itch she can dull.

" Donna! "  
He wants to say something – something like me, you, list, children, all of them, all the time, in here, and there, forever, because he has the_ time_ – but he is not the man with words when it is more than science. Here he has no expertise – here he only has his two hearts hurting and his inability to comfort.  
Offering replacements right after the loss would not be breaking: it would be grinding all to dust.

She makes the noises where she's almost crying but not yet, only the air and not the tears coming out.  
And then, with whole her skeleton in bits, she's still the one walking or stumbling with arms raised: not for help, but because someone else might need it. " You really would make her a great husband! "

He is the doctor. It's what he calls himself so often. He is not the one who needs aid, he is the one who offers it – and yet his most important patients remain sick.  
So when he steps out of that bus, into the dome, he does not crease his brow, nor does he pout, or make any of his other generic indications that he really needs her now. But perhaps that's why they're DoctorDonna, he thinks, when she holds her arms up to him again, not even knowing what is wrong but still discerning it.

Perhaps that's why they're DoctorDonna, and not DonnaDoctor. He is not the healer. It is someone else who is. And as much as he'd like his words to Wilfred to be false sometimes, he has indeed failed to take care of her many times before.

When she's close, he pulls her tight, just to feel her everywhere.

All the fractures are still there.


	5. CAPS LOCK

[ O5 / ? ]** prompt:**me trying to write something a little lighter / easier

well, direct writing is absolutely no my type of thing, so I have no idea how this turned out ... I feel like some parts are okay, but others seem a little off. orz ; since this is out of my comfort zone, however, I don't really know how to fix it, so I'll just leave it like this. it's partially inspired by Donna and the metacrisis clone yelling just OI at each other for a conversation. »» ;  
title because I couldn't think of anything else and there's lots of Caps Lock going on here. B'D now back to writing vague and slightly lyrical angst for me.

* * *

**CAPS LOCK**  
[ _tenth / donna_ ]

* * *

This was absolutely ridiculous on the several scales it has.

She'd tried to find her way by tracing back her steps, but as she did, it somehow seemed like the room order had changed. It probably hadn't, however, but Donna Noble wasn't about to admit retentive defeat to some dumb old crooking spaceship. Her second attempt at returning to the entrance had neither born fruit – in fact, she felt like the old maze trick of keeping your hand on the wall had only lead her further towards the back, as she kept coming across chambers she'd never even seen before.  
Her third try hadn't been the charm so far, but that was perhaps because it wasn't all that charming to begin with.  
" DOCTOR! "  
That was all it consisted of: yelling and lots of slamming with doors. Considering his keen attachment to the vehicle, she figured vandalizing it a little would draw his attention at the least. Sadly, it didn't seem to do so, and her carefully planned ' aggression for attention ' was slowly dissolving into her actual temper playing up.  
Or, admittedly, not that slowly.  
" DOCTOR! "  
With her luck, he was probably in the bathroom with either the shower or the tap for the bath running. In that case, it would almost be impossible for him to hear her. Once he'd tried asking her where exactly she wanted to go for dinner that day while she had been in tub, filling up still. There had been an endless exchange of " WHAT?! " and " I CAN'T HEAR YOU! " ( neither of them aware the other was screaming exactly the same from the other end of the door ) until the Doctor had given a " WAIT I'M COMING IN THEN! " that she had somehow mistaken for another uttering of the latter of the two used phrased. She had been halfway propping herself up and turning off the tap with a " I JUST SAID - " when he came flopping in.  
The evening had ended in take-away in separate rooms.  
If he didn't find her soon, it was going to be lonely dinners _all week_ for him and his stupid TARDIS.  
" DOC - "  
" WHAT?! "  
Finally. It came from relatively far away, perhaps even from the hallway on the other end of the room she had just exited, but at least he was somewhere in the vicinity now.  
" DOCTOR! " She was now roaring harder than the engines of the ship when it started. " WHERE ARE YOU?! "  
" WHAT?! "  
" WHERE. ARE. YOU?! "  
" I CAN'T HEAR YOU! "  
This was a joke.  
" WELL MAYBE YOU OUGHT TO GET A NEW PAIR OF EARS THEN, _SPACEMAN_! "  
" WHAT?! "  
" NEW. _PAIR_. OF. _EARS_! "  
" DONNA, CAN YOU TALK A LITTLE LOUDER?! "  
" Oh for God's sake! " She didn't know exactly where he was, but she remembered there being an u – turn a bit down the hallway. Chances were he was just in the next lane over, and she could hardly get anymore lost than she already was. She could just as well give it a shot.  
" WHAT? DONNA? DONNA?! I CAN'T HEAR YOU! DO – oh. " That last one was more a mouthing of the vowel than an actual utterance, because he suddenly found himself standing next to a frazzled and steaming redhead.  
" _What_ - " She starts, in the voice that indicated the build – up to an explosion, " _**exactly **_did you think you were DO - "  
" But I just honestly thought you were playing mini – cricket! " He interjects, trying to prevent Volcano Day from taking place in his own spacebox.  
" You thought I was playing _mini – cricket_. Mini. cricket. "  
" … Wellll, one of the options … "  
" Why do you even _have_ _**mini – cricket**_ on board?! "  
There it went.  
" Look, I don't know what you take me for, but if I've been _screaming_ at you, you lousy little _alien_, for you to come find me for the last _half_ an _**hour**_, you should _ought_ to start _thinking_ with your rocket science super Martian _brain_ that maybe _something_ worse than me having lost me _mini – cricket __**ball **_is going o - "  
" Donna! "  
He cuts her off so sharply, and with a frown so heavy, that she immediately clamps her jaw up and only stares for a moment. Never before had he been offended by her going off on him, so she can't help but wonder ( and a little fear ) that she might have stepped a trigger this time. " … W … w – what? … "  
He stares at her for another moment, and then suddenly breaks open in a cheeky smile, giving the little giggle ( ' hee~ ' ) he does sometimes when he's done something slightly naughty. " Where'd you want to go for dinner? "  
Her face is nothing short of incredulous for a moment, eyebrows raised and jaw slightly hanging, and then she prods him right between the hearts. " _You_, _**mister**_, are _so_ eating Chinese tonight. "


	6. Losing Strings

[ O6 / ? ] **prompt**: them not having kissed yet.

yaylongestupuntilnow. anyway, I was joking with a friend they could just have solved all problems ever by making out in front of people with the amount of times they made faces at each other that would have earned them kisses out in Hollywood [ sorrylongsentence ], and then I realized I hadn't even made them kiss _once_ yet.  
I'm pretty early into Nano still, I admit, but hey, whether it I do now or later, at least it happened now.  
so! once again, angsty vaguefic, this time with a little kissing included. [ note: kissing is never graphically described, though, only said it happens orz ; ]

* * *

**LOSING STRINGS**  
[ _tenth / donna / some mentions of rose and jack_ ]

It's not easy piloting the TARDIS on your own, but he still finds it easier than having to face that expression again. It was a mistake he managed to make: asking her to press a button, without his hands on her to help. She had been the aid first, the aid in killing thousands of people, smothered in fire and smoke, but doing so was something he could handle, even if it was just barely. He had killed long before, and many – but that was something she herself could never do.  
So he's confused at first, when his ship is shaking towards some other time and place and he glances excitedly across the board, gripping the controls as tightly as he can. It's only momentary, that face asking him to save a family, make it go, if she can't come after all, and when she sees him looking, she's already rocked into a yelp, but it wipes all the excitement he has felt at showing her yet another world. He wants to ask her what is wrong, later, when they've landed, but her hand's still near the button, and he needs no more explanation.  
He can only say he's sorry, and that she is no killer, no accomplice, only the woman who saved the world and then did not have the heart to make the whole unnecessary sacrifice of everyone – the everyone he'd have all culled.  
She slumps against him, just a little, even though he just dubbed himself a murderer, and frames her arms around his waist, where his normally go hugging, so all there's left for him is to stroke her hair with an arm around her shoulder. She has him promise that, this time, outside, beyond the door, there is not half a nation to erase with just one little gesture, and he promises, and seals it, with a kiss to head he does not know the meaning of.  
But people die. It's not as many, not as gruesome, but still they end upon the floor, prey of alien life he wished he could have stopped before it took them.  
And she's inside, against a pillar, mourning every single soul and almost cursing him before she swallows it, favoring the thought that, without them, all of them would have been slain. But that doesn't make it hurt less, and he fails at knowing what to do, because there is no bandaid or mother's little peck upon the wound that could ever cure this.  
He takes her hand, the one she won't cover her face with, and he rubs her knuckles with his thumb, but he can't see if it's helping. She's smaller, and her head is hanging, and her bangs are in the way of seeing mostly anyway.  
He ducks his head in an attempt – and then there is John Smith, in the same pose, opposite that quiet nurse, the curer, the _caring_ – and John Smith, the idiot, is human and emotional, so it's not mother's little peck ( even though it's light and soft and barely touching like upon a bleeding wound ), as it's much too on the mouth for that, and it startles her too much for affection just that slight.  
Afterwards, he still does it every now and then, even if it's not the human lover in him urging him to do, but it is for comfort, him or her, her hair, her shoulder, hand or mouth, and all relatively short and weightless, but still there.  
He wonders if that's it, that it's too quick and dainty, for her to answer anything, because she never does except for anything but a smile. It is not a cry for mating, though past friendship just a bit, and she doesn't seem revolted – yet at times, for unknown reasons, he thinks he sees her sad.  
It is only at the return of Rose that he realizes what is wrong.  
It takes too long for him to notice – he's too occupied with finding the girl he thought forever lost to at first notice any of the sorrow she's displaying. In hindsight, it was there, in that very sudden hug, in her sitting on the stairs, and in very many things he long should have seen before. He just tends to miss the obvious, so when after the reunion and his near – regeneration he bows down in the movement done so often, he is nothing short of shocked when she frowns and turns her head.  
" … No need to, Spaceman, " She finally murmurs, in the quietest of voices ( or perhaps the loudest she can manage ). " Go on. She's back. No more goodbye kisses now if you don't want any cheating. "  
His tongue is so much slower than her legs and she's already gone to Rose and Jack before he can correct and confess and maybe cry that it wasn't the no strings attached that she seems to think it was – and then there's world to save and no time or moment to rectify just what he's done or what he hasn't because he's notoriously terrible at telling how he feels.  
He thought it was enough, just not kissing Rose, in a ' look, you're right, I loved her but maybe between you and me mates is not enough now ' , but he might have overestimated her. Maybe he overestimated himself there, though, in his gesture of just cuddle and not smooch, with his neglect of showing her any attention at all before in favor of the blonde he was searching.  
He wants to say it when they're on the beach and ready to take off. He wants to say he's leaving him that's still in love with Rose, him right when he met her, because if he has not been taught his mercy ye it's at the start of his adventure with this girl, the start of an adventure without any sign of Donna Noble - Donna Noble he could thus not have yet feelings for. It's a lame excuse for justifying the kiss between the clone and the companion, right in front of them, heavier than his have ever been, but it's the only one he can imagine that is less painful than his second: that the man, the boy, who looks like him, that's he's DNA of him and her, in body and in soul and in attitude and speech, and that the only way for the DNA of two to be in one is for the one to come from two – that it's not a clone, that it's a mix, that it's a mix like child of mom and dad and that _maybe_ he is theirs and that they're now family that way, in a way he'd like to be.  
It's the adventure he can never really have, but the child is grown and somewhere else and not in danger as they go flying, and he can still stay with her, forever, one house, in matrimony, or in biodamp, like that ring he gave her the first time they met, in appropriate dress now, the ring she still wears every now and then.  
He wants to say all that, but he's always late – he was late with Rose, and he's late now, because though he passes the doors right away her, it's already going wrong, and she's a record on repeat. She asks him if he please would not ( and he wonders if she'd really rather die, though he could never let that happen ) and he refuses the request, only confirming her forever that he was about to say to her.  
If he could have done it with a kiss, he would have, but the touch is simple, and it is almost cold. There is no more explanation needed, since she won't remember.  
She slumps against him, just a little, with him now nearly widower, and doesn't leave her arms anywhere, no matter where they used to go for hugging, so all there's left for him is to stroke her hair with an arm around her shoulder.  
He breaks his promise of them always with a kiss to head he should have told the meaning of, and then cries into her hair.


	7. Letterbox

[ O7 / ? ] **promp**t: letter / me just trying to write a little more.

oh hey look another one I hate. then again, I don't hate it as much as the one I was working on and abandoned. it's now lying somewhere half - finished between my fics never to be touched again uehehe.  
I actually had two possibly decent ideas, but one was just kissing and the other was angst + some kissing, and considering Losing Strings was basically just that, I figured I'd better write something lighter. my attempt at writing lighter stuff is now that unfinished fic. this is my second attempt at writing a little more today just to hit 6.5k - it's not as bad, but I still don't think it's good ... and, yeah, it's angst again, but it doesn't involve kissing at the least. orz ; offf to bed now.

* * *

**LETTERBOX**  
[_ tenth / donna_ ]

* * *

He has no letterbox. He has no working phone except his mobile. He doesn't even have a steady home where one may find him every now and then.

Still, he'd like to hear from her. He'd like to, but he can't. She wouldn't tell him anything, wouldn't have anything left to tell him anyway ( not the things he'd like to hear, just the trivial ones that only hurt now ), and he couldn't say anything himself, hardly, a word or two, because one word could be too much.  
Maybe just his voice could be too much.

So he's considered writing, more than one, all the time, every time he comes down, sending her a letter then – or maybe simply every day, though it takes long to mail from Mars. He doesn't really know what to write: he just wants to say ' you're brilliant and important and I miss you please come back ' , because his guts feel like a landslide, roaring down and falling out and just leaving that gaping hole in which his hearts now pound so painfully.

He's been lonely before. He's always been quite lonely.  
It's just never been _this_bad.

He would like to look for Hope. Humans say she's flying, she's a dove, that she carries signs of life – and if he'd find her, he would take her, use the signs, bring back the dead ( because they're both now, she and him, or they might as well be anyway ) and then fly on forever as they promised.  
He doesn't want to fly around, though. He can't even fly around. Spotting it would be the most tell – tale trigger, and as dead as they are, they're not yet buried – and he likes seeing her walk. It's not the walk he knows, not the one he's used to, but sometimes he spots her while out and about, and there's a certain comfort in the knowledge of her gestures still.  
He can't fly since he'll be seen, but he is also down, and down and down and down he goes, all spilled out on the floor in misery and missing. Even Doctors need narcotics, and should he douse himself, there is none who will them cure him after.

Narcotics do not seem so bad. They would dull the sort of half life he is leading now, where he just travels since he must, since he runs, indeed, and cannot stop, the life where he is lonely and moving further from her as he goes and goes.

Starting over would be easier. Starting over all again. He can't, with her, though it would seem almost so – a blank slate to be rewritten, times to be enjoyed again, but that joy would end before it's even started.  
Still he could begin anew, once again, new face, new voice, old memories, but of and in a body that would be no longer his. Perhaps it would dull the loss and pain, dull him to the point of finally getting to cut himself open and pushing everything back in to quench the void and make it stop, because if it's not longer him, it's almost just a story, a fabricated nightmare that maybe never happened.

But he doesn't want that.

It is horrible being lonely, but he just cannot let go. Songs and tales last ages, but at some point they will go. There is no living creature that sings the war cries of the Romans still, or the anthems of crusades. She was important – she _is_ important – but there will be new disasters, and while her story's grand, over time it will pale, bleach like paper, croak like the voices now conveying lyrics faultily.  
It is horrible not remembering, but not being remembered is so much worse.

Some songs are not supposed to end.

It is right before he goes and flies and ends up becoming what he fears is someone she'll be less important to ( someone that fails to remind people he had a friend that called him spaceman ) that he leaves one little note. It's in an envelope, no return address, and her name is simply impersonally typed because he does not know what his handwriting could do. The paper inside is simply empty.

Especially at final moments, he has always been the worst at saying what he wants.


	8. Early Jingle Bells

[ O8 / ? ] **prompt:** biodamper ring

tried to break the line of angst with something a little more silly again. not that good at silly, but hey, adds to the wordcount. CB  
I've also realized that even though Donna is my favourite character, I keep vocalising through the Doctor somehow. orz ; haven't written a single story from her pov yet ... so, who knows, will probably show up soon. or at some point at least. »» ;

* * *

**EARLY JINGLE BELLS**  
[ _tenth / donna_ ]

* * *

Something he's always been the most terribly awful at, is giving people presents. It's not so much the giving and it's not even the money, but the thing he's most terribly awful at, is random sentiment. In the midst of his exhilaration it is easy calling someone brilliant, yet even though they still all while not being chased by half potatoes in armored suits, it's somehow so much harder to say – especially without being sappy.

So he makes excuses. He does buy her presents – who doesn't buy their friend a little trinket when she's on a planet she hasn't even heard ever of before? – but he doesn't call them such. It's the same as with the biodamper, except that obviously served a purpose other than just looking pretty.

And so, to make things easier, he simple makes _up_purpose.

By now she has a ring or two that hides her scent from Daleks, a set of earrings that will beep should she ever have a close encounter with the terribly itchy – legged Kofakka ( which look distinctly like a flock a fruitflies, he says, but actually aren't ), an Ood – flute ( which is actually a hairpin he tells her she'll one day figure out how to play ), special alien lifeform thought synchronizing tea, a pretty flower or plant or pebble or two ( which he ends up calling magical since she the first time he shows her, all delighted by the natural beauty, she just scrunches up her nose and asks _what does it do_ ), , and, his personal favourite, the very special outerspace ' ginger- i - fier ' , because, his words, you can never be too _ginger_!  
It's actually a embroidered blue draped robe that really doesn't do anything except for being clothing, but he is of the personal opinion that orange against blue does indeed look further ginger.  
It's why he has a blue suit, too. Maybe it also makes _his_hair a little ginger.

He's never sure just what she thinks of his explanations, though. She generally laughs, and looks delighted ( because, of course, she's getting yet another gift! ) but sometimes when she clips her new pair of Venus cherry radars onto her earlobes ( everyone needs those, he claims, as Venus cherries tastes the _best_ ), he seems some gleam of knowing, and he's not sure if he likes that. People poking through your plot has never been desirable, especially not when he tries to spare himself from any ensuing embarrassment.  
Just imaging things, he assures himself whenever she does it again. It's like she knows anything about alien presents or outerwear.

And then it's almost Christmas.  
He's out in space so he kind of forgets since Christmases are human anyway, and he's just tinkering with some controls when he suddenly feels a soft slap on his head. He gives an ' ow! ' for no real reason and then turns around while hunching, staring up offended. " What was that for?! "  
Any irritation due to broken concentration fades into a dumbfound stare when it turns out that she slapped him a little packaged – " _What _is that? "  
Well, yes: little packaged what exactly?  
She rolls her eyes, but she's still smiling, and holds it out when he gets up. " _Present_, dumbo. You might not celebrate on _Mars_, but since you're usually out saving the Earth instead of caroling with us, thought I'd do it now before we get too caught up to do so on the day itself, you see? "  
" Present? " It's not even a rhetorical question – he just need some words to accompany his tilted hanging jaw and confounded stare as he takes the package off her hands. " For _me_? "  
" No, it's for your _spaceship_. What do you _think_? "  
He gives a little ' ehhh ' and then decides not to continue answering. He opts for peeling at the wrapping inside, which is horribly cheery reindeers with fat and literally ball – shaped Santas.  
It's cute to some, he supposes.  
Soft as it is, it nearly slips out his hands when he's unwrapped it. When he holds it up, it unfolds further, to reveal a very long, knit rectangular.  
Frowning, he rubs it to his face. " Feels like … angora … and … " He holds it off with the same astounded scowl. " Cashmere? "  
Donna's eyes make another circle in their sockets, and she takes it off his hands, folding it double and then neatly tying it around his neck. " That's not where it goes, genius. For some brilliant Doctor you got an awful lot of no clue where stuff's to go sometimes? "  
" I knew that! " He protests. " That's where scarves go! " There he throws himself off. " … It's a scarf, right? "  
He completely loses any train of thought when she shakes her head, smirking. " … What is it, then? "  
She almost grins, tugs at her skillful knot again, and then leans in a bit, still holding on. " It's a human – made Warmth Amplicator. Keeps you from going _cold_ during Christmases and such. "  
She leaves him like that, satisfied and saying she'll go get dressed for winter, and he's just at a loss for words and at a gain for red in his face.


	9. Spontaneous Abortion

[ O9 / ? ]** prompt**: ... angst without kissing.

one of my friends sent me a beautiful prompt, but given the nature of that one, it was sure to involve kissing [ and REAL kissing at that this time ] once again ... and after Losing Strings, I felt like I had to write things just a bit more brotp for a while. orz ; not that I don't ship them as otp either, but let's be fair, 12.5 year old marrieds don't continuously snog ( andthat'swhattheyare ), plus there's no denying tenth x rose, really.  
SO. random angst. again. yay. also post - finale like Letterbox because I'm SUPER creative. wordcount 444 somehow. prettyneatwhenthisisseason4.  
uhh. could say I'm not a big fan again but you're probably tired of that so [ hopefully ] ENJOY.

* * *

**SPONTANEOUS ABORTION**  
[_ tenth / donna_ ]

* * *

It was almost like a honeymoon, after finding her again. It wasn't Spain, but even further off yet, and he'd seen her in dress before.

A honeymoon always comes after, though, and now at this point, there is none.  
There was her, and there was the dress, and then grand fun and tears, some vows and some promises, some even of forever, together, in one place, no children, but still _them_. It's more the ceremony, ring and all, right at the beginning, and then the reception, the party, complete with song and friends and family, with special drinks and laughter, a few uninvited guests that were equally unwanted -  
or maybe there wasn't even that.

Or maybe there was for him, but there's no more for her right now. There's no party, no reception, no church, no dress, no ceremony, not in any order.  
Now there's only him carrying her out, in his arms, bridal style, out the door of what was almost their cathedral, the tall – standing proof of the engagement they entered, almost in eternity, but mostly until death do part.

Death would have made her wait a long time, in that event, but he did not think it to be so soon – and especially not so cruel as her no longer waiting in the end.

It's good for her, he tells himself. It's almost like he dies each time, dead and then born again, but without the weight and troubles of that past life to carry. It's a better version of the Timelord – the _human_Timelord – the Timelord called the DoctorDonna.

He doesn't ring the bell immediately. In fact, at first, he doesn't actually ring the bell at all. He just sits there, knees collapsed, like he just dropped his bride, with his head against the door that should not be there, for by logic, the one of matrimony, they should now be outside, the two of them, off to a new life.

It's not what he carries her into when he finally gets up. It's her old life, and a new marriage, the one of normalcy and blandness and lack of self – esteem, where she does not know what happened, and does not know what she had, with him, in a way their children, except not called as such but simply named ' memories ' instead: spontaneous abortion somehow post that pregnancy.

That's why he can't tell her either. This death is worse, he realizes, in between the two goodbyes of holding her hand and kissing her forehead, but no mother and wife could live with the thought of having killed what they created themselves.

He leaves the doorstep empty-handed.


	10. Dreamboy

[ 1O / ? ] **prompt:** " and then sometimes I see this look on her face, like she's so sad, but she can't remember why "

hey 1O fics time to throw a party?  
anyway, I honestly doubt it, but I apologize in case anyone missed me updating this thing the past few days. I was busy being consumed by feelings over Beautiful Chaos ( one of the DW books featuring Tenth / Donna YOU HAVE TO READ THIS I SWEAR ) and The End of Time because god was nearly everything there horribly sob - worthy.  
in all honestly, I personally find this fic rather bland, but I was at 8k and I need to be at 11 today ... so I can't start throwing things out now since I have wordcount to catch up to. sorry if any of the upcoming ones aren't that great either. I can smell that happening. orz ;

* * *

**DREAMBOY**  
[_ wilfred / donna / sylvia / shaun / mentions of tenth_ ]

* * *

It's the day after the wedding – the morning still, even – and when it's six am and Wilfred Mott wobbles down the stairs, barely covering up his yawn, she's already on the couch somehow – Donna Temple – Noble, that is.  
There's nothing more worrying than a fresh bride up and about ( or perhaps more sitting and staring ) at an hour like this without her new husband.  
He makes a worried little noise and moves over as quickly as he can with his old bones and muscles always being stiff until half an hour after waking, and starts with a ' sweetheart ' to ask her what is wrong, until he sees her look.  
He knows that look.  
So he doesn't ask anything, because he might want to tell then, and just sits next to her to take her hand. She barely reacts at first, then suddenly grips back and turns to him, sad and lost and so confused. " Gramps, I … "  
And then he has to. " What's wrong, Donna, sweetheart? "  
Her eyes flash about, as if there's a better answer in thin air than the one she's trying to formulate for him, and then she grabs her outgrown bangs with her free hand, pulls at them, chokes a sob, and tries to look at him but doesn't. " I don't know, Gramps! I don't know! I wish I knew because it's just a dream but I don't know why I'm upset! "  
She can't remember. She can't ever. He already found out, over phone, that one instance, what would happen if she did.  
But on the other hand, she has to. She was so much better off. And perhaps this is their way around it – not forcefully remembering, not burning all at once, but slowly, slowly, a degree at the time, so she can get used to the heat and eventually bear it.  
He doesn't want to hurt her but he has to. She was so much better off.  
And so he pushes on. " What sort of dream was that, then? Did you have a nightmare, Donna? Come on, I won't be laughing at you, you know that. "  
" I know! " She blurts. She shakes her head, inhales too sharp, and then almost flops against him. " But I don't understand! It's not even a nightmare! It's nothing to be upset about! So then why - … why - ?! … "  
" Donna. " He clasps both his hands over hers as she tries to hide her face with the one untaken. " It's not gonna go away if you just yell about it, love. Tell me what. We can work it out, eh? "  
And she sniffs and she shivers and shifts around the couch and then she finally sobs, really crying, on what should have been a happy day, like her first marriage she can't even remember should have been a happy day as well but wasn't. She tells him her dream, of the wedding, again, this one, the one where he was present, and about the lottery ticker laying in her drawer now. And she tells him how she got it, not from him, or from her mother – not in the dream at least – but from a man she didn't know but maybe should have, in a suit without a face because that spot was just a blur, and how he scared her, at first, walking up to her, in a place he did not belong, until he held out a paper slip and spoke in a voice as familiar as that childhood song you forgot the lyrics of.  
" I'll look after you, Donna, " He said. " I promise. Forever. This time. Me. "  
And then she'd gone downstairs, not in the dream, but here, ticket in hand and clenched to her chest before throwing it down on the table, because she is to love Shaun now and by god does she love him but it scares her that the shapeless stilt induced so much affection – like her knows her, like she knows _him_, like they know each other better than anyone before and were to stay together just that way, knowing how to care about each other, knowing how to care for, and yet now it's only him who cares for her and it's like she has somehow _forgotten_.  
She tells him this and makes such a sobbing ruckus doing so that halfway Sylvia comes down the stairs and freezes there, so Shaun nearly bumps her off when he comes rushing out since he's awake and hears his wife cry.  
And he really wants to help, since the scene is nothing short of horrible, but he can't do anything at all because he doesn't understand what or what is going on. All he can do is see that he is standing among Motts, that he is standing among Nobles, and that all of them are crying, the eldest like they know, the youngest like she doesn't. He really can't do anything, but he wants to, so he still tries – he slips past Sylvia and sits next to Donna, and she buries down in him and weeps like he's never seen her do before.  
When she's finally done, she falls asleep, again, Wilfred and his child are in the back, still wiping at their eyes, sneaking her glances and mumbling something about what he makes out to be a ' self – defense device again ' . He puts her down, the gentlest he can, and then quietly goes over, hoping for some or any explanation to them and her at all.  
Yet they are simply sad, and both of them shake their heads, Wilf with his hands upon the poor husband's shoulders. " One day, " He says. " One day, maybe, I guess. "  
It's hard telling him about his almost son – in – law, or grandson, for technicalities.  
It's too hard telling him that, in the end, should she know him, there's a man out there in the big wide universe that Donna Noble will always love a tenfold times more than she loves him.


	11. You, not everyone

[ 11 / ? ] **prompt:** ... no real prompt I'm just writing nonsense here. orz ;

I AM SO UNCONVINCED BY THIS ONE but I told myself I had to stop throwing away fics, because these are for Nano and amount is really what counts mostly ... so I just decided to keep this [ forsomereason ] and I'll probably force myself to go back to the others I thought so horrible I abandoned them ...  
so yeah, don't expect too much, sorry ;;

* * *

**YOU, NOT EVERYONE**  
[_ tenth / donna_ ]

* * *

" You _died_? "  
After her story from just now, it's a stupid question, so she has him know that. " No, I laid down in front of that truck _for fun_. "  
He would normally make an apologetic and partially offended pout at this sort of resort, so she's surprised to still see him staring. Then he takes her hands, closes his eyes, presses his own knuckles against his mouth with thus her fingertips almost touching the same place, too. " Donna Noble, you're fantastic. "  
She doesn't know how quickly she has to draw back, unable to properly respond to this sort of things. " Oh come on, sunshine, don't go acting like it's _special_. It's the whole world versus you … and besides, not like it really happened, did it? "  
" I don't think many people could do that so willingly. " His eyes and frown are heavy. She finds it strange he does not respond to question number one.  
She doesn't press him, though. Instead, incapable of meeting the gaze he has on her now, she just throws her hair back and crosses her arms. " Course they would, don't be ridiculous. It's _everyone_ we're talking about. "  
" _Everyone_ is abstract, Donna. " He's stirring in one of those strange, fizzy, foamy drinks again he had her taste at the start of the day. She regrets ordering tea and files away the request for getting a sip of his for when this conversation's over. " You can't see it. You won't know what you'll be saving. " He looks up. " And one person out on the street, in a car accident … everyone won't even _know_ what you have saved. _That_ you have saved them. No honor. No glory. No remembrance. No name. Just _gone_. "  
Perhaps she realized it before throwing herself out there, because Donna Noble has come to realize so many things she never thought she could before. Still, a split second is no time for that to sink in, and now it does, she looks a bit abhorred.  
" Would you do it again? " He asks.  
" What do you take me for?! " She knows just how terrible it is now, yes, what she did to herself back on that road, but that knowledge does not justify keeping your life instead of guarding _everyone_'s.  
And, besides, everyone dying includes her, in the end. Now or later doesn't really matter – now or later has stopped to matter ever since she stepped in that blue box.  
" Why, Donna? " His eyes are normally so friendly, but now they're piercing, and they're old.  
" I _told_ you, alien gramps, it's the _whole_ bloody _world_! "  
" You're a human, " He says. " You can't fathom _the world_. "  
" Go ahead and show me the start of it to save it and then tell me I can't! Oh wait. " She cocks her head to the side, and then, very annoyed, snaps forward. " _You did_. "  
He gives a little sniff, rolls his eyes to the ceiling, as if he's not willing to accept that argument, and then looks back to her. " Why? "  
" Are you even _listening_ to me?! " It's been a while since she's this fed up with him – or in fact, she's never been before. She would compare it to him bleeping her, saying she was just a loser, about to be consumed by nano – particles, but after all that travelling, that now seems a lot worse.  
She did slap him, back then. She was angry, back then. But at the same time, back then, she was used to no-one ever listening.  
Of course, he doesn't always listen still. He is much more of a talker, one that needs an audience, a rambling madman who will otherwise be lonely and just talk to himself. But if she rambles him and rattles him, if she says it is important, then he always will – he'll always stop his mouth and open up his ears and have some time for her.  
Yet now he hasn't. And the worst thing is he does not believe it either. She listened to his stories and never thought of one of them as lies, whether he showed her afterwards or not, yet somehow, even though _he_ taught her selflessness, he won't seem to trust her claim that maybe, even if in just a dream, she might be able to do something like that too.  
And it stings. More than any giant wasp might ever have.  
So when he blandly asks her " why " again, she's ready to throw her tea in his face. She is, but she doesn't, because it would only prove her point of her still being that dumb aggressive behind her stupid desk with that lousy computer, drinking coffee from her boyfriend that was slowly poisoning her. Instead, she still gets angry, but just grips at the table and tries not to cry, other customers becoming onlookers as she raises her voice to the tone of matrimonial squabble, directed at the man she trusts most but who now won't trust her. " Because I love you, you big, thin _spacelump_! I wasn't saving the world, I was saving _you _so you could, alright?! But tell you what, if you keep this up, then you can take me straight back home and go back into the sewers and _why are you laughing_?! "  
Suddenly he's giggling, between his fingers, at the floor, and she can hear his feet kicking lightly in a shoveling attempt to contain his fit of laughter. Not appropriate.  
" _What_ is so funny?! "  
It sinks in three seconds later that she doesn't need a response other than some reflection on her former blurting. She used to be the master of the verbal trap, but it looks like he picked up.  
He rubs off on her, she rubs off on him.  
Highly embarrassed and flushing approximately the color of her hair in even lower light than in this very dim café, she sinks back into the chair she raised from angrily, mouths soundlessly like a gaping fish, and then very eloquently finally produces: " I didn't – That's not – Oh you're not fair, that's not what I mean, _get out_ a bit, I just said that 'cause you - ! "  
" You know what, Donna? " He interrupts, faux – pensively rocking side to side on his chair with one of the most impish glints she's seen him produce yet, " I think … "  
She decides that, should he say something like " you actually do " , he's in for some good old Racnos – Adipose adventure slapping time again. " _What_?! "  
He leans in, elbow on table and chin in his hand, and looks most mischievous. " I would too. "  
She gapes momentarily, entirely incredulous, and then starts. " You … You would also … love … you. You. Would also. Love. You. You would love _you_. Oh. _Really_? Well, then you what then, _spaceman_, if it's _you_ and _you_ then **I will **_**just**_ - "  
Before she can continue, he is next to her, hunched over in the strangest position because she is sitting and he is standing but apparently it's necessary for the section between his nose and chin to be in her hair now. " So much, " She hears, and she would have continued if it weren't for the fact he's suddenly cradling her half, and the physical contact leaves no room to interpret the statement faultily as him meaning himself again. " Donna Noble, you're fantastic. Absolutely brilliant. And I love you. "  
And despite the reverse word order, she still clings onto him.


	12. Half Moon

[ 12 / ? ] **prompt:** two little dw facts.

fact one: the doctor's name apparently lies hidden somewhere in the medusa cascade.  
fact two: the doctor wanted to take donna someplace in the medusa cascade [ 15th broken moon to be precise ].  
wishful thinking: WHAT IF HE WANTING TO GO ON A HIKING ADVENTURE WITH HER TO FIND HIS NAME.

also haha I'm just gonna go back to writing vaguefic because I HATE everything I produce in this format wow.

* * *

**HALF MOON**  
[ _tenth / donna_ ]

* * *

She feels nauseous.  
" There's something I want to show you, " he'd said, and then they were off again, to what he'd called the Fifteen Broken Moon of the Medusa Cascade.  
She knows why it is broken now.  
They're standing at the edge of a cliff. That's what she decides to call it, in being sways of her mind trying to wrap itself around this pitfall, but it's not quite accurate – cliff, that is, or pitfall, or gap, or anything synonymous that indicates a gaping hole.  
Hole isn't good either, though. Holes have a bottom.  
This doesn't.  
Below her feet, thousands of miles down, is the other side of the planet. It's almost medieval – flat, flat, flat, and past the edge, drop down to bottom. But it isn't flat, and there is no bottom. It's a moon, and it's circular, and it's chopped in half with a slight slant, with them being on the shorter side of the diagonal slice. It isn't clean and neat, however. There's dents and bumps and stone formations suddenly sticking out after what would appear to be a less than smooth slide down, but at least a shortcut to the far end of this rock.  
She won't wager it, though. She wouldn't wager it, ever. But right now the thought of sliding doesn't even cross her mind as she becomes aware that the ground is circular, and – now she knows it's circular – they must indeed be spinning too. Her vision starts to slope and turn and she almost stumbles forward, a little closer to the edge, almost down into the nothing of space and time and universe where even he himself could no longer pick her up – but he is next to her, the Doctor, and she can latch onto him, panting and sniffing in such a way that it suggest her lunch is on the rise again.  
He stands perfectly still until she's calmed again, though she still does not let go of his arm.  
" … Is … is this is? " She manages, producing a weak smile in an attempt to show him she's alright. " Not what I expected, spaceman. "  
He doesn't react.  
She breathes in, closes and opens her eyes, and then stares straight ahead, never down again, like a motion sick child at wit's end.  
She feels more like she's at the end of the world, however.  
" … Isn't this how you see things all the time? "  
Nothing.  
His silence scares her. " … Doctor? "  
Her hand goes down his arm, to his hand, laces their fingers, gives it a squeeze. " … Doctor. "  
He flinches at the touch, then finally turns his head, a little too slow to be attentive, and a little too sad to be smiling. " … Yeah. "  
They just look at each other for a while, each trying to maintain face and then giving up their facades again, knowing that their counterpart won't buy it anyway.  
She's the first to speak again, in a voice unusually low and soft, one that he hasn't heard since showing her singing ringing through his mind eternally. " … If this is not it, Doctor, then what am I looking for? … "  
And he doesn't know how she distillates this from him just saying ' yeah ' , but finally he smiles a bit again, grips backs, squeezes too. " Not sure, Donna Noble. Might be here. Might not be. Might be some other place. But I'd like to find it. With you. One day. "  
" Find _what_? "  
It's a superfluous question he won't answer, she knows, but Donna is a talker, and it's worth a try.  
He doesn't shake his head – he simply turns around, his hand still in hers, and begins their way back to the TARDIS. " One day you will. I'm sure. "


	13. Three

[ 13 / ? ] **prompt** [_ by friend_ ]: you, your long hair, and slight drunkenness and melancholy of tomorrow, dissolved in the continuous rhythm. sweet nights … [_ lyrics from miku's **piano lesson**_]

the irony of story 13 being called three. ANYWAY.  
finally one where I'm remotely happy with the writing again but WHOOPS characterization. I felt like she wanted rather shippy so I wrote really shippy ... except that's a bit hard with these too because I don't feel like they'd do super lovey teenage - romance but more like 12.5 year marrieds - romance. ifthatmakessenseatall.  
anyway, as said, really rather shippy, so if anything other than brotp makes you gag, skip this one? orz ; I personally tend to float upon the line between otp and brotp, and I still liked writing this, at least ... so, who knows, if you're uncertain, give it a go?

[ oh, and as for that up against the ceiling thing ... he promised to take her to an anti - gravity restaurant while they were phoning so yeah. nogravity. ]

* * *

**THREE**  
[_ tenth / donna / vague mentions of martha / rose_ ]

* * *

It's Midnight, and it's late. They've been up against the ceiling, as he promised, and she can't remember how they ever drank. She is in her robes again, as light and soft as she feels, and there is one bed they are perched upon, he now also clean and bathed.  
They're not really talking. If they are, neither of them knows what about, since it only matters they are laughing, he is laughing, that he did not forget but does not remember for the moment, the moment in the here and now where they're together and there's no malevolent entity to tear anyone asunder.  
_I'll leave the door closed_, she promises, head upon his shoulder. Door closed, no-one out. No-one ever should.  
She is not sure where it came from, other than his story, the tragedy he told her and she wished he'd shed a tear about as he never cries or mourns as he somehow not allows it for himself, and she's not sure what it stirs, but suddenly it's closer, close enough to smell what's on the table by the bed as well.  
_Please don't go out_, he says, and their heads switch positions, his in her neck, and hers, astounded, by his ear. _Don't leave me alone.  
_She knew already, this great fear, so _forever_ is not just for her, but now she's confronted with it closely, and can say nothing to assure him – or she can, after seconds, with her arms around his back and their temples touching, while she feels him shake in silent, dry and drunken crying.  
And she tells him _always_, again, constantly, in here, back there, the always of the running and the TARDIS, the adventure and the talking, the alone and the together, the Doctor and the Donna – or not even the latter, because they were sang about, not him or her but just together in ice and wind and snow in a tale that is past time and space and where he'll never be alone because she won't let him be.  
This she tells him, and he quiets, like a child she's faintly rocked. But he isn't her child, and he lets her know, swaying up and even closer than he was before and ever been, even counting wasps and kitchens, now she touched him so close mentally as he's never shown before.  
So it probably shouldn't surprise her, with their boundaries gone through alcohol and sorrow upon one resting place in bath coats, but he next his hands are in her hair and he whispers about gingers and his like thereof and how their children could maybe be.  
She can only stammer, flustered, and she doesn't know why she lets him, but protests and reminds him of their first agreement, where he was sunshine and she just a jobless girl running after him and chasing fat. She can't tell if he laughs or sobs, but there's bare skin and he bows does and does nothing but breathe while telling he _knows_ he can't, not that one thing, but if he now could, then her, with her, maybe, if she wanted to, because he misses his children and he knows she does too and there's no replacing but alternatives at least.  
She just wants to hit him. She just wants to hit him and ask him if he's mad ( or actually yes he is she knows that without asking ), if he could just not bring that up again because it's a loss she just wants to forget among the wonderful things he's shown her, and ask if that was maybe all a ruse since, if she can't replace, she's just alternative to all the former girls he lost or the ones that tossed themselves out at last.  
But she can't.  
She can't because she knows the kiss he finally places is not one of alternatives, but one of monarchs and of queens and of their sides and their existence that melted in a song, like he's trying to do now but without a sound at all, without a word and just a touch until he tries to say he likes her hair and ends up leaving out the last word and mixing up the second with something so much greater – because how could he ever tell her that if she is just a temp and not his flower, if she is only ginger and not beautiful like in the songs of Shakespeare, if she means nothing but third place or even further down after there have been so many?  
She lets him, though. She denies it all and still she lets him, because the last semblance of love she had been given was nothing short of hatred and ended in that non – physical abuse that broke her even further. She sits not upon his throne, but she means something, at the least, a little, or they would not be here by now – or they would not have been anywhere by now.

He takes his time, because he has it. She takes some love, because she needs it.

When he's done, he then sinks down on her, mouth from mouth to cheek to jawline, and he asks her if she hears it, his fingers still in hers. She doesn't, wants to roll away from him, because it's better than thrown or cast aside, as she's now used to being used, but she is weak and malfunctions so she just tells him weeping it was nothing, this was nothing, and that she is nothing on top of all of it, so he knows she has no wrong impressions and tomorrow hopefully won't hurt as much.  
But he won't hear it. She can't hear his and he won't hear hers, because he just heaves up again to breathe together and tell her that it's everything, she is, mostly she and not that it and that she doesn't even know it but he really wished she would because, _here, won't you listen?_, it's their heartbeats, DoctorDonna, human Timelord, in a rhythm, and not four, the way he's talking, but just three with two of his, one three, and one of hers right in between. It's one two three, warm and soft, me and you, just us two, I love you, and it's his lul – la – by after he kisses her goodnight and they curl up together, him to her and she because they're tangled and she can't get out.  
She doesn't want to, but she has to, because to her, it makes no sense, this does not, he does not, everything and none of this, but even though it does not she wants it to be real because there are stranger things out there and she'd like to be important, just a little, to the one she treasures most.

Of course, next morning, he's out and about and back by the time she's dressed up. She'd say her heart is into pieces, but it's nothing but a pile of dust.  
She knows that's how _he_feels, though, all of the time he has, after all he's been through, so she just smiles again and soldiers on, like one of the so many, towards their breakfast.

Next she can only cry when she's kissed within the TARDIS.

And then, suddenly, the Earth is gone.


	14. Plastic Planets

[ 14 / ? ] **prompt**: me wanting to dish out something quick during my spare hour between 2 lectures

THIS IS THE RESULT OF THAT PROMPT.  
tenth / donna fic without tenth even in sight man am I good and whatnot  
or really rather I mean  
why would I out this in that tag this makes absolutely no sense. orz ;  
oh well overriding theme of these things is still those two so if I can get away with the first story being 9 / donna I can get away with this too no?

* * *

**PLASTIC PLANETS**  
[ _shaun / donna / some wilf_ ]

* * *

He dearly loves her, really does, but he won't pretend to know this would be what he married into. Some might say it to be a blessing, thinking you know all and then finding there is more, but he was fine with Donna Noble with just spunk and her big mouth, and that little bit of tenderness that's right there underneath.  
He dearly loves her, really does, but what's underneath there scares him.  
He's a dreamer, always been, and so he thought her to be too, with how she sometimes sinks away, in the deepest of her thoughts, as if she's looking there for something she knows not even form of. Maybe she just knows reason, but he doubts that, as well, or at least some reason other than it maybe dispelling that gruelling wrenching sadness he came to find she carries.  
And she knows not even what for.  
He remembers the first time, quite long ago, the first time he thought she maybe had a fascination or a hobby they could delve into together, dreamers that could share an interest in the plane high up and hurtling over. But it turns out plane - watching is not her hobby, and it's neither that her father died in the wreckage of a crash - it's what he asks a little later, softly, hoping that she'll take it well and won't become upset again.  
Instead, he feels little, when she communicates this pining feeling for her to be up there, flying, instead of on the ground. It's something he would easily dismiss as a lasting childhood dream, but her eyes upon the plane, blue and rising hair, spoke of something more than that.  
He remembers a book, long ago for _him_, when a very sick girl had a last dream - of flying. And Donna Noble's healthy, he's told that after tests, and their baby is fine and she's smiling and shining, but in the back of his mind, he thinks her sick indeed, and maybe - he'd really rather not consider - she carries death somehow, not for him or others, but only for herself since things went so wrong on Christmas.  
They have a little boy, their little miracle with the most curious of eyes in his dark color, but she won't give him any leeway for the input of his name. Her list has only one, though she has no pondering or scrapping done, and he's so very puzzled because it's not Lance or Geof, but some common ordinary name without a meaning.  
At least, he thinks John means absolutely nothing, but maybe Donna Noble does.  
And he makes the grave mistake of buying fluorescent stars to stick upon the ceiling of the little boy's room - in blue - and then in punishment she's one day late, twenty minutes over time for bedtime story, so he goes up and in and then find her in the corner, curled up and crying while the baby sleeps so tightly under the sky of their fake universe.  
She lies lame on the couch, after, pale and almost feverish, with a face that's burning up, and she just keeps apologizing for the sudden crash she does not even understand because the sight of plastic Jupiter is not anything to cry about - or shouldn't be - and she still did.  
It's then that he heads off to Wilfred, up upon the hill, to ask if he knows any alignments of the planets of the stars that do these things to gingers, makes them cry at flying planes and children's decorations.  
Wilfred is not ginger, though, and still he sheds a tear upon the question, and then simply shakes his head, saying he can't tell.  
When Shaun is at the door again, however, and looks a little back, there is an old man right above him, saluting at the stars.  
So he does too, not knowing why, and silently prays the creature up there might not taunt his wife but save her.


	15. Little Travelling Charm

[ 15 / ? ] prompt: tenth meets a younger donna.

14k and 15 stories - well on my way to make it to the 30k I want to have written by the end of the month!  
more on - topic, this prompt comes from my friend making a somewhat awkward typo when she suggested that I write 9th meeting donna, making half the sentence interpretable as meaning ' go have the doctor meet a younger donna ' .  
so then this happened. little bit of nonsense but hey that's fun to write, too.  
oh, and.  
PREPARE FOR TROUBLE. AND MAKE IT _DOUBLE_.

* * *

**LITTLE TRAVELLING CHARM**  
[ _tenth / donna / donna_ ]

* * *

With the usual thunk, half thud and half a clank, the TARDIS lands. He would like to prompt Donna to go out first to have a look, having set all controls and thus their destination simply to ' random ' , but she's still in the back, ' just in case of Ood again ' .  
As the Doctor's always moving, always running onwards, he is not exactly one to wait – so the first steps out are without her.  
And boy, is he glad he did when he does so.  
When he puts his second foot down, eyes first on the sky and hand still on the door, there's suddenly this girl. His wide and happy smile ( Earth, still his favourite! ) dissolves into a straight line and a set of blinking eyes above them.  
The look she gives him is equal parts unfazed and unamused.  
" … Hello! " He gives after a moment, ready to squat down and grab his brainy specs to look more like an authorative parental figure. " And what's your name, then? " He feels like he should somehow know, however, with the straight, half long ginger hair, the brown – green eyes, the crossed arms, and the facial expre -  
" Doctor, where are we - "  
" I'm not saying! " The kid blurts.  
He shuts the door right on Donna's nose, and ignores her ensuing rampant fury for a fish – eyed, dragged out " Noooooo " .  
" I'm not saying. " She's a little bit too sassy for – nine, ten years old? Humans age so quickly. Or maybe it's not just for her age, but moreso for his liking, because now he has to deal with the same redhead in the front and in the back. Not exactly his idea of _brilliant_.  
Maybe he's in luck, though, and he's actually wrong.  
With Donna far from having given up on screaming and banging at the door, he haunches down at last, and tries his best smile again. " Well, I'm the Doctor, so now that you have my nam - "  
" That's not a name! " She interrupts.  
" Who are you talking to?! " Comes out between the pounding on his old, poor TARDIS.  
This is nothing short of horrible, and with Donna on the doorstep, he can't open up and fly away again without causing a temporal paradox.  
He looks behind him. " Donna, shut up! "  
" Who are you telling to shut up?! " He hears.  
" I'm not saying anything! " Goes into the other ear.  
Then there's sudden silence when the two girls realize that they've both reacted to the same now.  
" Why's that lady got the same name? " Mini – Donna frowns.  
" Oh. My. _God_, " Echoes older Donna from inside the hollow TARDIS.  
The Doctor irons his hand across his face. No easy getting out of this if this teeny tiny thing is the slightest bit as headstrong and persistent as her self two decades further.  
After very slowly pinching and wiping his nose in thought and puckering his mouth, he finally furrows his brows at the child. " Look, Donna, I need you to get your mom. "  
" Me?! " He hears rather muffled and incredulous from a bit back over his shoulder.  
He whips around three seconds. " No not you Donna just shut it! "  
" _Oi_! " She snaps, from the back of her throat, " You watch that mouth you're running, _spaceman_, because if I hear one more _shut up_ from you then you better bet your skinny - "  
" Are you from _space_? Does that mean you're _alien_? That's _weird_. _You're_ weird. You're _creepy_. "  
Oh for bloody double's sake.  
" … Look, Donna, " He tries again, giving a quick ' not _you_! ' at the door before he continues, " you need to get your mom, 'cause I'm a stranger, and you can't talk to strangers if mom says it's not okay, can you? "  
She considers his wisdom for a moment. One moment exactly. " No, 'cause you're weird. I don't listen to weird spacemen. "  
He can almost _feel_ the smug smirk burning into his nape.  
Yet then happens what he wanted, though not in the way he intended to. " So I'm gonna get my gramps and show him you're weird because he likes stars and I don't talk to aliens without him! " And, as if to remind him once again of what bossy redhead exactly she'll become, she gestures at the ground with a ' stay there! ' and then bolts off.  
Though he yells ' okay then! ' , it's not a promise he is keeping. With her out of the way, he yanks the door open and slams it shut again just as quick as he came in.  
Inside, he's faced with Donna, who has her face in that excited and very up to no good o – shape. " … That was _me_. "  
" You're not going outside! " He sternly points, wheeling around the middle pillar to get them into gear again. " I've been stuck in that situation before and I'm _not_ letting it happen again! "  
" No but you don't _understand_! " Donna counters giddily, as if she herself did understand what he was speaking of just now .She patters after him to grab him by the shoulders as he pulls at a few handles and stares at the screen until she touches him. " We _met_. _Before_! "  
" … _What_? " He's one big crinkle around his open mouth now.  
" Like, just now! " She nudges her head towards the door. " I met you! Before! When I was younger! I couldn't remember, but I just did! "  
His expression is stuck in the same baffled folds. " How can you not remember meeting an _alien_? "  
She pulls up her lower lip and gives a little shrug while averting her gaze, as if her upcoming argument is the most plausible one possible. " I got a new bike later. "  
" You got a new _bike_? " His tone couldn't be more disbelieving. " You met an alien and you forgot because you got a new _bike_?! "  
" Well, maybe not on _Mars_, spacechum, but bikes are pretty _important_ here, okay?! " She bobs her head from side to side, like she does when he asks stupid questions and she poses a sarcastic answer. He wonder if it shouldn't be the other way around this time, though.  
Instead of pondering things as obvious, however, he presses one last button, and suddenly, the engine starts. With a deep sigh, he flops back, praying that his ship will indeed transport them to a quiet spot a mile or so further up ahead, so they can discuss their next course of actions. He isn't quite up for another spontaneous and unplanned nerve – wreck like this one.  
With the TARDIS barely even wobbling while travelling a distance this short, Donna sits down next to him, expression hanging between impish and relatively pleased. " Third time's a charm, eh? "  
They meet eyes in a long stare that he induces, and that has her uncomfortably ' … what? ' after some blinking.  
Perhaps it was the charm indeed that made them do that trick, for aside from that excuse, it seemed more or less impossible to accidentally meet her that often in the all of space and time.  
" Nothing, " He finally says, crossing his arms behind his head to lean back. " So, where'd you want to go, Donna Noble? Two should be our charm today. " He can't help but grin a little too. " You and me, again. "


	16. Sometimes a writer serves herself

[ 16 / ? ]** prompt**: lack of desired roleplay

and then I got too caught up for / forgot about Nano halfway the month. erp. I still have some half finished stuff and several ideas laying around, so I'll see how much I can crank out until the month is over ... sorry to everyone who was following!  
anyway, I've been trying to get my hands on some Doctor / Donna roleplays for about two weeks now, but sadly, basically to no avail. I've found one so far. one. and due to a rather complicated plot, they won't be able to kiss.

and I have to admit that after seeing that UTTERLY BRILLIANT FANTASTIC GORGEOUS PERFECT KISS between Tennant and Tate in Much Ado About Nothing, I need some more kissing than just the Unicorn and the Wasp.

so I served myself. some kissing. not a lot, but finally explicitly mentioned like in other fics. far from my best work, and a bit iffy on Ten here, but it's basically fanservicing myself ... so let's hope someone else can get some enjoyment out of it as well. orz ;

* * *

**UNTITLED**  
[ _tenth / donna_ ]

* * *

He already figured she'd be noisy, considering she is, well, generally noisy, so it doesn't come as much of a surprise. It is a bit of a shocker, however, that she's already producing this much sound when there's really nothing going on.

They're both still in their pants and their last shirt, and all he has been doing is peck at her mouth, her neck, and excessive amounts of twirling and digging in her most beautiful ginger hair. He's in lead, hanging above her and taking these slight actions, and begins to wonder if she might have some strange fetish for being dominated – role reversal with real life? – because it's all light and almost careful and hardly very sexual at this point.

" Blimey, _Donna_, " He finally gives frowningly, when she starts squirming and softly moaning when he just has their chests touch for another kiss, " What's it with you? "  
" You got a problem?! " She's all red and huffy, and bolts up to yap at him. Instead, they nearly headbutt ( they don't because he draws back right in time ) and with a another now all too familiar yelp, she flops back, her hair spreading out. " OI! "  
" What _oi_? " He scrunches up his nose, one second, and then grins, now knowing the exact way to keep her shut – simply tugging himself up a bit at the pillow, right along her laying body.  
She emits another yip and then some very heavy breathing to catch her own again, glaring at him from the corner of her eyes as he lays his head down on her shoulder, face nothing short of imp. " Well you might be busy repopulating Egypt with Cleopatra, Ado_not_, but I actually got enough decency to not pull my pants down at every member of the opposite sex like is apparently some Martian custo - ! "  
" Yeah, yeah, " He says, after a quick bite to her neck ( which promptly has her both shortly shriek and clam up ), shaking his head from side to side and pushing himself up onto his elbows again, " Because I don't do that. "  
She's right about with enough oxygen to retort again when she sees he's serious. Very serious.  
" Just you. "  
A long look ensues, between dumbfounded and entirely austere, and then she closes her eyes, sighingly gripping at the back of his shirt. " … Don't make fun of me, then? 'Cos there's been nobody for me since Lance. Well, nobody real … " She trails off, both her voice and her gaze, and then snaps back to him and her soft manner. " … And I don't know what's long in Timelord terms, but about a year is long for some dumb human. _Really _long, alright? " Especially around the one you want to be with but at the start already promised not to, comes her mental tack – on, the last one she's about to let him hear.  
" Donna. " He sets his arms around her head, and presses the tip of his nose to her forehead, along with his upper lip. " You're not dumb. You're _brilliant_. Wonderful. Fantastic. " He laughs. " _Sensitive._ "  
Not expecting him to spring back and tickle her top an inch or two up, she makes more high – pitched clamor between two quiet giggles from his end, to then drop her flustered voice down an octave or two. " OI, CAN IT, SPACEMAN! "  
He rubs his ear, now a little too close to her mouth to bear the yelling. " I'd rather you'd be making that other noise, " He mumbles to himself, but not silently enough for her not to catch both the mutter and his wandering hand.  
" _OI_. "  
" Oh come on. " He rolls back. " You wouldn't let me do this if you didn't like it, Donna. "  
Then it hits him.  
Suddenly he's off, or mostly, anyway, sitting up, hovering over her upper legs, back straight and far away from her. " … You are, are you? " It was something he hadn't considered before ( and the same thing as he now wants to hit himself for in hindsight ), but her cries could just as well be a ' get off of me ' , one he had then not respected to begin with.  
It did mean the evil was already done, but if he caught it in the bud like this, there was still breaking it off prematurely, before the worst of damage was done.  
Her complete lack of reply has his hearts sink completely, one after the other.  
" … I'm _so_ sorry. " He would ask her why she let him, but he's put her in worse situations before, like on the Sontauran ship, and she always simply obliged. If this was also something she felt like he needed her to do, it would explain the how and why – but explanations don't change anything about how quickly he has to get off of her. " … Donna, I am so sorry, I absolutely didn't mean to - "  
" I know. " She rose along with him, and she's looking horrifyingly sad, as if he needs even more wrenching confirmation of all that he's been doing wrong.  
But for some reason, she slings her arms around him, burying her face in his blind spot, next to his ear. " … But that's not why I let you. "  
Sometimes, he misses obvious things.  
He gathers her up further, kissing at her temple. " … Is that sensitivity in your character, or are you just happy to be with me? "  
" Oh, shut it, " He hears, but she draws back at the same time, her eyes the same wet as that small spot on his shoulder, but smiling widely again.  
He does exactly the latter too. " Anything you want, Donna Noble, " He says, before laying down with her, finally kissing mouth to mouth and open, " anything _you_ want. "


End file.
